


Boy Crush

by Lasgalendil, Neutralchaos



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputation, Artist Steve Rogers, BDSM, Bucky Barnes Feels, Communication, Consent, Danger Kink, Embedded Images, Explicit Consent, Food Kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Shy Bucky Barnes, Suicidal Thoughts, Watermelons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutralchaos/pseuds/Neutralchaos
Summary: Steve wanted—no, needed—to be that watermelon. He was dying of dehydration and Bucky’s dick was the only cure. There was something sexy about the idea of putting his head between those thick thighs, feeling the power of them squeeze around his ears—…oh.Steve Rogers /might/ have a danger kink.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Misty Knight & Steve Rogers, Misty Knight/Sam Wilson, Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 208
Collections: MCU Kinkbang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

It was late Friday night/early Saturday morning, and Steven Grant Rogers, 5’1, 90 pounds soaking wet, blond hair, blue eyes, was in holding.

Again.

He’d been arrested. Again. He hadn’t used his one phone call--because that was just television bullshit--and he was too broke to afford anything but a court appointed attorney anyways. He’d been broadcasting on Periscope when the arrest had happened, so there was that. Wanda and Pietro and Bucky were all still on site, but Nat or Sam or someone would come bail him out eventually.

… _again._

“Rogers?”

It was Detective Knight. Steve disliked cops on principle, but he’d once seen her shout “I’m not a fucking smurf” at a howling woman with a bob cut holding a Blue Lives Matter sign, so he was a little in love. Detective Knight was Harlem born and raised like Sam, and did her best to advocate for system change from the inside. Steve didn’t 100% _approve_ of her choice of work, but he sure as hell _respected_ her for it.

Steve stood, grunting in pain. She was competent if not compassionate. Why couldn’t she have been the one to show up to the protest?

Detective Knight took in his bruises and shook her head. “You’re free to go. Do me a favor? Stay out of trouble.”

“No promises.” Steve said.

She sighed. “You’re gonna get your fool ass killed.”

Unlikely. He had uncontrolled asthma and type I diabetes. And with the price of insulin? Yeah. He’d be lucky if it was Nazis that killed him. “Until next time?”

Detective Knight shook her head.

Sam Wilson, good bro, best friend, roommate, and currently very, _very_ tired of Steve’s shit, was slouched in the lobby. “You look like shit.” Sam greeted him, taking in the black eye, broken nose, and distinct lack of glasses. He handed Steve his (back up) emergency inhaler. Steve’s had been lost in the chaos.

“Ma’am.” He nodded to Detective Knight as Steve took a deep puff.

She folded her arms. Leaned her weight into her left hip. “Keep this one out of trouble for me, hmm?”

“Lord knows I try, ma’am.”

* * *

“So,” Sam drawled once they were alone. “How was the Unite the Right Protest?”

“Counterprotest,” Steve scowled, blinking rapidly and frowning. He couldn’t tell if the blurriness was from not having his glasses, the exhaustion, or the concussion he’d definitely lied to EMS and NYPD about not having. He’d taken a tiki torch, a police baton, and no few fists to the face.

“I’d offer to get us an Uber, but I know how you feel about that,” Sam ushered him outside and towards the subway.

“I also think public transportation should be free,” Steve reminded him. Even exhaustion couldn’t stop him being a little shit.

“Yeah, well, your bail wasn’t, so the man wins tonight.” Sam swiped his metro card twice, shooting Steve a look that just dared him to try jumping the turnstiles. “I am not getting arrested over one of your publicity stunts. _Again._ ”

Steve shrugged. The ‘publicity stunt’ in question had been after the death of Eric Garner, and Sam Wilson had been more enraged than Steve had ever seen him, before or since. Sam had been the one to organize their neighborhood Black Lives Matter protest with a righteous indignation, but _Steve_ was the one who took it to its logical conclusion. He’d been young and angry and reckless, and even now five years later and he still wasn’t sorry, even if it meant his name was on the shit list of every cop in New York City. Publicity stunt, Steve’s scrawny, IBS-inflicted ass.

“I swear, Rogers, you have some sort of danger kink.” Sam sighed.

Steve sputtered. “Danger kink?”

“Like, are you just horny for that shit or are you really that stupid?”

“I am not ‘horny for that shit’,” Steve insisted testily. “And I’m not stupid.”

“Oh, so antagonizing a bunch of Neo-Nazis isn’t stupid?”

“No.” Steve argued. “They were carrying torches outside a synagogue— _Pietro and Wanda’s synagogue_ — and they tried to _burn a torah_. They had it coming.”

“Sure.” Sam said. “And arguing with a cop. That wasn’t stupid?”

What was stupid had been the city allowing the supposed ‘protest’ in the first place. “They allowed a dangerous situation to develop and prioritized the right of free speech of some fascists over the safety of the public,” Steve said, matter-of-factly. “ He pepper sprayed non-violent counter protesters, and he’s the law enforcement professional. It’s his _job_ to de-escalate the situation.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam continued, unimpressed, in a way that implied _I saw the video, Steve_. “And the punch you threw at the cop?”

“I have the right to resist unlawful arrest,” Steve sniffed. “Up to and including bodily harm or death of the offending officer.” Steve was all of ninety pounds soaking wet, but his ma had taught him how to throw a mean right hook. Judo, too. She’d said her nan had used it as a suffragette, and damned if Sarah Rogers wouldn’t continue the tradition.

Sam shook his head with a rueful, gap-toothed smile. “You know you’re only alive right now ‘cause your white, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve knew. It wasn’t just the arrests thing, it was the social stability, too. Sarah Rogers had come to Brooklyn to escape the Troubles. She’d been undocumented, but she’d been white Irish.

Sam knew him well enough to read his thoughts. “You know privilege isn’t as an excuse to be everyone’s punching bag.”

“That’s _not_ what it’s about.” Steve insisted.

“Yeah?” Sam asked, dropping the argument. “Do me a favor and just, I dunno. Get into some _Fifty Shades of Grey_ shit if you really want your ass tied up and beaten like that.”

“That book is bullshit, and you know it.” Steve sent a gentle elbow into Sam’s ribs in thanks. That shit was neither safe, sane, nor consensual—and Sam should know better. Steve had read his HanLando and Stormpilot fanfic.


	2. Chapter 2

They made it home with the sunrise. Sam made him take his usual morning meds in addition to his own weight in tylenol and (enteric coated) ibuprofen.

Steve hit the pillows. When he woke up, it was Sunday.

…and he really had to pee.

“Ugh.” Steve complained to the collective universe, tasting morning breath and blood. Sitting was painful. Standing was agony. Light was a stabbing ice pick behind his left eye. Steve was technically legally blind with his glasses off, so stumbling to the toilet while stubbing his toes with his eyes clamped shut wasn’t exactly a new experience. The shaking so bad he nearly pissed all over the floor and toilet seat? That was a new one.

There came a knock on their apartment door, and the sound bored into his skull. Steve groaned, and limped out of the bathroom. The plates of his face hurt, he had a headache from the combined concussion/no glasses thing, and his scoliosis was killing him from standing all day, spending the better part of a night in a holding cell, then falling unmoving into his bed for 18 hours straight.

…not to mention he’d skipped half a dozen meals. That’d explain the shaking, at least.

“’Who’sere?” Steve called, scattering glucose tabs over the kitchen floor.

“It’s Wanda.”

“And Pietro!”

“We wanted to see how you were doing?” Wanda’s worried voice rang.

“And we brought blintz, so open up!”

Fuck the glucose tabs, Steve thought. He let them in, making grabby hands. Wanda. Pietro. The promised pastries, and—

…and Bucky fucking Barnes.

Steve stuffed his face to stop himself from squeaking.

“Steve, you look awful.” Wanda frowned.

“You didn’t see that coming?” Pietro snorted, pushing his way past and into the apartment.

“You dropped this.” Bucky said, and put Steve’s inhaler gently into his palm. Steve felt his whole body flush at the touch. Steve was glad Sam wasn’t home. Sam would’ve called him on his bullshit, not that his dick wasn’t doing a fine enough job all on its own, thanks. Steve was wearing way too thin pajama pants.

The truth of the matter was this: Steven Grant “I don’t have an authority problem I AM the authority’s problem” Rogers didn’t have a danger kink.

…he had a _Bucky_ kink.

* * *

Darlene Wilson once called him three whole ounces of whoopass in a one ounce can. Sam had been mortified at the comparison, but it was not, however, an inaccurate description.

If Steve Rogers was all piss and vinegar instead of common sense, then Bucky Barnes was a mellow apple cider sipped slow and cool. If Steve Rogers was all elbows and sass, then Bucky Barnes was a fucking teddy bear. Steve was a puffed up chihuahau trying to make himself as big an intimidating, then Bucky Barnes was a chocolate lab trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Bucky Barnes was a laid back and easy-going science nerd. And Steve? Steve Rogers was an uptight little shit of an artist with a chip on his shoulder.

Bucky was big. Not like, bulging muscles, washboard abs, roid rage, eating disorder big, but _big_ big. Tall. Thickset. Healthy and plump. His right arm was easily twice the size of Steve’s thigh.

And speaking of thighs…

Bucky had great thighs. Great. Fucking. Thighs. He had the padded ass, quads and hamstrings of a hockey player, tapered down to the sculpted calves of a soccer star. Steve had seen him bust a seam just by sitting on more than one occasion. Bucky got all his pants several sizes too big and had them tailored just to fit around his thick, bulging thighs. Even now, Steve could see them straining against the denim.

Steve _dreamt_ about those thighs. He’d come more than once just thinking of riding them, the firm press and give underneath him. He wanted to rub his dick against the silky soft smooth skin of them, feel their weight pressed against his own.

(Did Bucky _shave_ —?)

“Thanks,” Steve told him, scooting his chair further under the sketch-book strewn table. Wanda put on the coffee and kvetched, while Pietro was his usual whirlwind self, unable to sit still, and by the time the coffee was poured the kitchen was practically spotless.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve’s birthday was July fucking fourth, because of course it was. If you thought sharing a birthday with Jesus was bad, try sharing one with Uncle Sam. All the downsides of that other holiday birthday, but add nationalism, colonialism, and fascism to the mix with a main course of genocide. Combine that with the drunk driving and fireworks sure to trigger every Vet’s PTSD, and it was a recipe for disaster.

…disaster, of course, meaning the precinct.

“Oh, look. It’s the birthday boy.” Detective Knight sighed.

“That’s me.” Steve said brightly. He wasn’t wary, but he was curious. She hadn’t been the arresting officer (again), yet here she was. “Your friend posted bail. I’m tempted to leave you here.”

“On my birthday?” Steve teased.

“Next time you punch a Nazi, do me a favor?” Detective Knight sighed. “Don’t. Or at least duck.”

Steve grinned, wincing at the pull of his split lip. “You should see the other guy.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m hoping to.”

Well. How about that. And that’s how Detective Knight not-so-subtly invited herself to his birthday barbeque. Not that Steve minded—if Sam was tripping over himself distracted, he wouldn’t tease Steve for making an ass of himself mooning over Bucky Barnes and his very, _very_ rideable thighs.

* * *

Steve shouldn’t’ve bothered. Not even Detective Mercedes “Call Me Misty” Knight in all her athletic bikini body glory could cover up how absolutely gone Steve was on those thighs. The shorts situation wasn’t helping. The shorts situation wasn’t fair. The shorts situation should be _illegal._

This told him two things:

  * Bucky _definitely fucking shaved._
  * Fuck art school Bucky’s mom was Steve’s favorite artist of all time.



And that was before Bucky put a watermelon between his glorious thighs, and crushed it.

* * *

It happened a little something like this:

The Jewish Community Center had this Fourth of July shindig for the whole community, rented out a picnic shelter and grills and the pool at the local park which fine, whatever. His ma had been a relapsed Catholic but Steve wasn’t particularly religious. But Pietro and Wanda were volunteering—and totally completely coincidentally so was Bucky, so Steve agreed to a birthday celebration for once. Sam got dragged along, making drinks and manning the grill, because he insisted white people didn’t know how to cook as Steve begged everyone in hearing distance not to get him started on the potato salad. And if Samuel Thomas Wilson, LSCW and eligible bachelor, was a little more shirtless than was sanitary or safe around the bubbling grease, well. Misty was sitting in a chaise lounge near him admiring the view, so Steve wasn’t going to say anything.

There was cornhole, horseshoes, a tiny tug of war for the kids and a bigger, more ridiculous spectacle for the adults.

…and by ridiculous he meant sexy, sweaty thigh times. Bucky Barnes bent forward in a half-squat, singlehandedly (Steve kicked himself) dragging his team to victory in all his quadriceptual glory. Steve was _gone_ on those thighs. 

Misty caught him looking, and Steve hurriedly got in line for the grill, her amused gaze following him the whole time. Shit shit shit, Steve thought. If she told Sam he’d been openly lusting/fantasizing about Bucky Barnes in public at a family friendly event (again) he’d _never_ hear the end of it.

There was a separate grill and utensils for Wanda’s hamburger, while Pietro bit into a haphazard cheeseburger, dripping grease and ketchup everywhere. Wanda rolled her eyes. Pietro stuck out his tongue, and they started kicking each other under the table, shrieking in laughter, before Pietro picked her up bodily and swung her into the pool.

Steve smiled sadly. He’d been an only child. An orphan, now, like Wanda and Pietro, but they had each other. Steve had no one—which was a lie, of course. Steve had Sam, best friend and best flatmate anyone could ask for, but it wasn’t the same. He wondered what life would’ve been like if he’d had a sibling. If his mom was still here.

He was marinating in that melancholy when the next competition started, barely paying attention. What the fuck even was a greased watermelon contest anyways? “Barnes, you beast!” Sam shouted, and Steve whipped around in time to watch Bucky clench the thing between his two powerful thighs in an attempt to carry it.

It burst.

Steve was staring. Steve was _salivating._ To his right Misty was cackling at his expression of utter disbelief and lust but Steve had more pressing priorities, like staring a Bucky’s thighs. Memorizing Bucky’s thighs. Creating a new religion whose sole purpose was to worship Bucky’s thighs.

Juice glistened, gliding down the expanse of his smooth skin. Steve swallowed. His phone alert went off for arrhythmia. His dick twitched.

Steve wanted—no, _needed_ —to be that watermelon. He was dying of dehydration and Bucky’s dick was the only cure. There was something sexy about the idea of putting his head between those thick thighs, feeling the power of them squeeze around his ears—

_…oh._

Steve Rogers _might_ have a danger kink.

* * *

“Come on!” Wanda cajoled him. “Come swim!”

“No.” Bucky mumbled. “I’m okay.”

“You’re sticky AF,” Sam protested. “Jump in!”

“I think I’m just—“ Bucky looked at his phone. “I have to go.” Steve knew a blow off when he saw one. He also knew embarrassment and shame. He hauled himself out of the pool and ran after Bucky.

…well, as best as a 90 pound asthmatic with chronic joint pain could run.

“Bucky! Hey!” Steve called, bending over double and panting at the exertion.

“You have your inhaler?” Bucky asked cautiously.

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve waved him off. “Stay. Come swim with us. Leave your shirt on.” He rushed. “No one gives a shit.”

Bucky stared.

“Um, unless it’ll, uh, ruin your arm or something—“ Steve clarified. Shit. He knew fuck all about prosthetics, he’d just been looking for an excuse to talk to Bucky. To convince him to stay.

Bucky snorted. “You’re really bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“Flirting.”

So Bucky _had_ noticed. And even approved! Steve should play it cool. Take it slow. Ask him out for a coffee or something. But this was walking wet dream Bucky Barnes, shorts still wet with watermelon juice, and that dancing part of Steve’s horny monkey brain screeched GO BIG OR GO HOME!!!

…Steve Rogers had _never_ , _ever_ gone home. Not once in his life. “Yeah? At least I’m not a bad kisser.”

Bucky blinked. “I’m—I’m not a bad kisser?” he asked, confused.

“Yeah?” Steve challenged with a shit-eating grin. “Prove it.”

There was a second of silence. “Pietro’s right,” Bucky told him. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“It’s my birthday.” Steve shrugged, almost letting out a line about spanking but thankfully his brain/mouth filter wasn’t that far gone. Yet. “I know what I want.”

Bucky’s face was flushed, and he laughed a little as Steve read his body language, and carefully, very carefully brought himself up on tip toes. This close he could count every one of Bucky’s freckles, lose himself in his long, thick lashes, feel his stuttering breath. It wasn’t anything, really, just a closed mouth little kiss. Bucky made a wounded sound, pulled him back in, and suddenly they were making out in the park like fucking teenagers.

Steve was in swim trunks, and in increasing danger of getting his ass arrested for indecent exposure. Reluctantly, he pulled away.

Bucky tucked a strand of his messy hair behind his ear, embarrassed. “You should probably get back to swimming.” he mumbled something about all his friends, his party, etc.

“Fuck swimming.” Steve decided, and grabbed his hand. “We should get snow cones.”

Bucky’s face lit up like a sunbeam. “Okay.”

Steve used his remaining self-control for the decade not pouncing then and there. He ordered watermelon. Sue him.


	4. Chapter 4

The thing with dating Bucky Barnes was that he was adorable.

…he was also shy AF.

Bucky blushed, like, a lot. Which was endearing and sexy as hell. But he wouldn’t touch or hold Steve with the metal arm. Got jittery if Steve’s hands went up his shirt or around his waist.

And they hadn’t had sex. Which wasn’t…bad. It was just weird? Steve was happy to let Bucky set the pace of any make-outs, but Bucky never initiated any of them. He seemed happy just kissing and cuddling for hours, all cutesy and above the clothes/waist sort of things. Then Bucky would leave or fall asleep and Steve would do a mad dash to the bathroom to take care of his aching dick. Jerking off to Bucky felt both better and worse now that they were a thing. One the one hand, Steve was dating the guy, so it was all above board, right? On the other hand, Bucky was very deliberately _not_ _having sex with him_ , so it was some weird sort of consent issue Steve couldn’t quite put into words. And nothing made masturbating in the bathroom while your partner slept it off in the other room more awkward and humiliating than wondering what said partner would think about you getting off to them.

He was sketching absently in the kitchen when Sam came in, sweaty and sex-flushed.

“Oh, hey man.” Sam apologized for his general state. “Didn’t know you were up.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Steve shrugged. “You?”

“Didn’t sleep.” Sam grinned, pouring a tall glass of water.

Steve shook his head. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, man. I don’t know—you ever have a girl who doesn’t spend the night?”

He had a guy who didn’t fuck, but that was Bucky’s business. He wouldn’t air it here. “I thought she seemed pretty into you.”

“Man, she _was_ into me, if you get my meaning,” Sam winked. It was no surprise—Misty Knight was walking Big Dick Energy. “She just—she won’t spend the night? I feel a little slam, bam, thank you ma’amed.”

Steve set down his pencil. “You want to cuddle?”

“Man, fuck you.” Sam laughed. But they sat cuddled together on the couch watching Steven Universe until they both fell asleep.

* * *

Steve was a bristly bastard and not good at dispensing relationship advice. Or, as Misty called it, “casual.” Sam Wilson, it turned out, did not do casual. Very well. At all.

Steve found himself caught in the crossfire. “Tell your friend” and “if you see Misty”, playing telephone for two grownass adults who needed to get their shit together and be honest about sex and what it meant to them.

Miscommunication aside, at least they were getting some. Maybe Bucky wasn’t ready. Maybe he liked to take things slow. Maybe it was like the whole arm thing all over again.

…But Steve was a reckless asshole who hated hypocrisy, and he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He couldn’t kick Sam’s ass about being open to his not-girlfriend when he was too afraid himself to bring it up with Bucky. They needed to _talk about it_ , damnit. So Steve was going to make him talk.

* * *

Sarah Rogers had been a nurse.

…Steve didn’t get his bedside manner from her. “So I was thinking we could have sex this weekend.” He said, apropos of nothing.

Bucky stared over his take-out, bug-eyed.

Shit. The Pieces clicked together, seconds too late. “…and you’re asexual, aren’t you.”

“What?” Bucky asked. “No!”

“So you just don’t want to have sex with me?"

“I would like, really like to have sex with you.” Bucky flushed, curling up into himself on the opposite side of the couch, his food forgotten. “It’s just—I haven’t really done it since the whole…arm thing.” The whole arm thing turned out not, in fact, to have been losing the arm in the car accident that had cost him both parents and a sister, the weeks of hospitalization or the years of physical therapy since. No. The whole arm thing turned out to be much, _much_ worse.

Apparently there was this whole fetish community surrounding amputees and prosthetics? Which, okay, Steve wasn’t going to yuck someone else’s yums, YKINMK, etc., but there was a difference between reading fic or searching ethically sourced porn to get off to and literally being stopped by random strangers on the street, internet, GRINDR, or _porn studios_ all because you lost a fucking limb.

“I had to change my number,” Bucky bit his lip. “Delete all my social media.”

Steve prided himself in being a good person, in doing the right thing, but in the end he was just one more guy in a long list of people who’d objectified that body without considering the person underneath. What a fucking _asshole_. Steve was going to take his thigh-riding, watermelon flavored, head-squeezing sex fantasies to his early grave.

“I have asthma, arrhythmia, and chronic back pain,” Steve shrugged instead. “We can work around it.”

“So—“ Bucky blushed even deeper, all the way under his collar bones. “So I could leave my shirt on?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Steve agreed, then added seriously, “I draw the line at socks, though.”

Bucky burst into giggles. Steve crawled forward, and very slowly, very deliberately, kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not that sex with Bucky was bad, or anything. It was just—

It wasn’t what Steve _wanted_. Bucky was shy. Kept his shirt on or the lights off. They still hadn’t even showered together. He was open to trying new positions or switching when Steve brought it up, but never suggested anything on his own. His default state seemed to be missionary/bottom/pillow princess, which Steve was happy to work with, but Bucky still got uncomfortable with Steve touching or praising his body. Steve was 90 pounds soaking wet, and little more than skin stretched over ribs, so he could understand the whole dysphoria thing.

The problem was, Steve wanted everything. Steve wanted _more._ But Bucky wasn’t ready to give it, and he’d had so much trauma and objectification surrounding his body it wouldn’t be fair to ask.

* * *

Everything was fine. Steve Rogers had an adorkable boyfriend to doodle and watch Doctor Who with, to keep him company during his Patreon streams, to stay up late giddy and giggling. They’d even gone and got tested and didn’t bother with condoms anymore. Steve had a whole closet full of clothes (and back-ups of all his prescriptions) at said boyfriend’s place, and Bucky had even brought up that his lease would be expiring at the end of the year. When Steve suggested maybe they should look for a bigger place together, he’d positively _beamed_.

Everything was fine.

…until it wasn’t.

“We need to talk.” Bucky told him seriously.

Steve knew that tone, was instantly on guard. He’d heard it before: It’s not you, it’s me.

“Yeah?” Steve swallowed.

Bucky stared at his knees. Wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I um, I know I shouldn’t’ve…” he mumbled. Sighed. Looked up at Steve sadly. “But I went through your phone.”

His phone—? Steve’s mind ran circles around itself trying to figure out what he’d done. _Had_ he been cheating? He thought hysterically.

His porn.

…shit. His _porn!_ But it was worse than that. Images were impersonal. But the fics he wrote, the art he made, the fics and art he’d bookmarked and shared—? Steve was into what the internet called _some pretty kinky shit_. And Bucky? Bucky seemed content—overwhelmed, even—with their gentle, vanilla sex. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.” Steve said, voice clipped.

“Yeah.” Bucky sighed. “I—figured.”

“We don’t have to do that.” Steve tried again.

“No.” Bucky said sadly. “But you want to.”

* * *

Steve was stubborn son of a bitch born with multiple heart defects who just wouldn’t die. Steve was on a beta blocker, insulin, the max dose of histamine blockers and a PPI for his stomach ulcers and had at least six other health conditions that were dangerous to mix with alcohol.

…Steve was, however, stubbornly drinking alcohol. It’d been a gift from Nat when he’d lost his mom, sat tucked in the freezer all these long months with a handwritten note: _just in case_. He lived too much in the real world, Nat had said, every once in a while he needed to escape. And fuck, was he trying.

* * *

That’s how Misty found him, and how he discovered she’d finally spent the night.

“White boy, I have seen your medical records.” She told him seriously, pouring a cup of black coffee in nothing but one of Sam’s old air force T-shirts.“Drinking that much could literally kill you.”

Steve didn’t argue. Just poured another shot. Said “Sláinte.”

Her eyebrows rose.

She was going to call Sam. Steve knew she was going to call Sam. She was going to call Sam at work where he helped people heal from _real, actual trauma_ and have him come home to deal with Steve’s self-inflicted, self-centered bullshit. What an asshole. And the worst thing was Steve couldn’t even bring himself to care.

“Mmm-hmm. Don’t flatter yourself—your ass was not _that_ good.” Misty purred into her phone, rolling her eyes as she excused herself. “No.” Steve heard her say sharply from the next room. “You need to come home now.”

She didn’t leave him alone until Sam got home, not even to change. It led to the incredibly awkward situation of sitting on the couch in silence with his best friend’s girlfriend as she bunched Sam’s too-big T-shirt up under her thighs, wrinkling her nose because “That shit is nasty.” She was aiming for humor, something to cheer him up, break the tension. Any other day Steve would’ve found it painfully hilarious, given her shit for sitting on the furniture without any underwear on. But she was a cop, she knew what suicide watch was. Steve didn’t want to _kill himself_ , didn’t want to _die,_ but the idea of drinking himself into a painless sleep and never waking up held a morbid appeal. He didn’t want to die, but he’d _deserve_ it. He’d hurt Bucky. He was just one more in a long line of shitty people who’d hurt Bucky.

“Vodka, huh?” Sam's voice interrupted those dark thoughts. “That bad, huh?”

Steve nodded.

“Nat?” Sam asked gently.

Steve nodded again.

“It helping any?”

Steve shook his head. Tried not to cry.

“Man, what happened?” Sam took a seat on the couch next to him. “I thought you two were good together.”

“Turns out we’re not into the same things.”

“What, like dudes?” Sam tried to tease. “Social justice? Because the rest is pretty damn negotiable.”

“I’m into stuff that he’s not.” Steve bit out.

“Steve,” Sam’s face and posture grew serious. “Did you—“

“I would never.” Steve said vehemently. “ _Never_. I know all about etiquette and communication and aftercare, Sam. Consent is _the most important_ thing to me.”

Sam’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Then what happened, man?”

“He found out I was into BDSM,” Steve said. “And I hadn’t brought it up with him. I think he thinks he’s…inadequate, or something. I mean he _already_ felt like that.” Steve rubbed his eyes. His throat felt like raw hamburger, like every Strep infection he’d ever had had come back to haunt him. “I made him feel like he wasn’t good enough.”

“Oh, Steve,” Sam said, pulling him into his arms. “C’mere, man.”

“Self-pity, huh?” Sam asked him when the shuddering and sobbing had stopped. “That’s not the Steve Rogers I know.”

“It’s _not_ self-pity,” Steve blew his nose into Sam’s shirt. “It’s Catholic guilt.” Sam laughed a little. Steve was still sniveling like a fucking baby.

“You’re gonna get through this, okay?” Sam said. “You’re gonna go get flowers, or chocolate, or a pony or whatever the hell it is that boy is into, and you’re going to march over to his place and you’re going to talk it out like a goddamn grown up.”

“You’re an asshole.” Steve sniffled, in lieu of thanking him. “Sorry I ruined your morning after.”

“Man, nothing’s sexier than the caring best friend vibe,” Sam grinned. “Good in bed _and_ good in a crisis? I should thank you. You did me a favor.”

That actually did get a laugh out of him.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky looked how Steve felt. Which is to say, like shit.

“What do you want, Steve?” Bucky asked miserably.

Steve was a bisexual millennial. He’d seen, memorized, and masturbated to the 2005 Pride and Prejudice since he’d been getting erections. Darcy wasn’t hot because he was a rich elegant playboy asshole, he was hot because he was a rich elegant playboy asshole who _listened, apologized_ _, changed_ , and _still_ didn’t expect anything in return. “I am here to profess my undying love for you.” Steve told him seriously. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t, in which case if you say something I’ll leave you alone and you don’t have to see me again.”

Bucky sighed. Undid the chain on the door. He didn’t so much as invite Steve in as walk back to the couch and wallow on it, swallowed by cushions and blankets. There were half-empty mugs, paper ice cream cartons, and rolled up Kleenex everywhere. Steve felt a pang of guilt.

“Tea?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Let’s just skip to the part where you either dump me or try to get me to do things I’m not comfortable with because let’s face it, this is the best I’m going to get.”

“What do you want,” Steve asked.

“I don’t want anything.”

“Everybody wants something.”

“I want to be normal,” Bucky rushed. “I want to die in that car accident or I want it to never have happened. I want this body to go away, I want people to stop looking, to stop _staring_ , to stop _pitying_. Fuck.”

Well, shit. “I think that’s a little beyond boyfriend territory," Steve began.

“I know.” Bucky said into a fistful of grimy tissues. “I’m working it out with my therapist.”

“Doctors Ben and Jerry?”

Bucky snorted. “Them too.”

* * *

Steve did make them tea in the end. Sat down on the couch and talked about kinks and the kink community. Explained BDSM and its etiquette. Catharsis. Control. Consent.

Bucky fidgeted. “So, you want to,” he began awkwardly. “Boss me around, or something?”

“What? Bucky, no. Kinks are weird, okay?” Steve said. “We don’t get to choose what gets us going.”

“And you want to,” Bucky tried again, “Put me in lingerie or leather or something and tie me up?””

Fuck it. “I want to you to put me in pretty panties and a collar, douse yourself in watermelon juice, and make me lick every goddamn drop off you while you tell me how good I make you feel.” Steve blurted. “Then I want to suck your dick while you strangle me with your thighs.”

“What?” Bucky blinked.

“I said what I said.”

Bucky cackled. And suddenly they were both laughing until tears streamed down from their eyes.

“That’s some pretty kinky shit, Steve!” Bucky hiccoughed, looking more relaxed and happy than he’d ever seen.

“Yeah?” Steve grinned, crowding a bit into Bucky’s space. He put his hands on Bucky’s belly, smoothed them around the soft pad of fat over his hips. “I’ve got a nerdy boyfriend with this beautiful body. It does things to me.”


End file.
